


Worms

by m1blue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Living Insertions, Mild Gore, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m1blue/pseuds/m1blue
Summary: a dude fucks a pile of worms. that's about it.
Kudos: 5





	Worms

**Author's Note:**

> July 3, 2014, anon request

Everything ached, bruises on bruises as Hector slipped again and plunged forward onto slime-slicked stones. It was pure black in the ruin, but he could see a beam of light so bright, it almost looked solid.

Cautiously he felt the artificial edges and broken stones for handholds to pull himself up, forward. His light had broken in the fall, and likely a finger or two, as well, though he couldn’t quite feel them but for a swell of heat in the icy cold. Hector’s breath fogged in front of him, rainbowing in the light it picked up.

Light meant sky. Light meant safety.

His hand splayed on red slime only moments before it slipped and Hector plunged head-first into the sinkhole the light shone into like some horrible angler’s lure.

He saw white, black, woke disoriented but not dead. He didn’t think.

Hector didn’t want to open his eyes, though, just in case. Wandering, numb fingers felt instead, legs flexed experimentally. Warmth, slickness – had he hurt himself more? was he lying in a pool of blood? It pulsed, a heartbeat not his own.

One eye, then the other. The light still shone down from an impossible distance above, glistening over a slime slick that coated the basin of the sinkhole, mixed with trickling water and a sickly-sweet stink of rot. Hector breathed it in, like undergrowth in a forest, wet after rain. It wasn’t a bad smell.

He brought his hand to eye-level. Some strands of red wrapped around the purple knots of his fingers, and a translucent slick coated the rest. Hector fell back, his head pillowed by more of the slime. The warmth was nice, too, and the constant trembling contractions were like a massage.

He was going to die here.

As he relaxed into his fate, the slime grew over him, or he sank into it. It didn’t matter anymore. It soaked him, slid in through tears in his clothes, pulsated against clammy flesh. It writhed, and Hector couldn’t help but to writhe with it.

The slime was slick and spongy, tightening and loosening around his limbs. Some teased at the head of his cock through his pants. No, he couldn’t say that – though it felt like he was sinking into a woman’s body, fleshy, warm, comforting, it was just slime. It was just slime.

It wouldn’t care. He didn’t care. It was cold, the slime was warm.

He broke free just enough to shove down his pants, peel off his shirt, discard radio, rations, everything. The wriggling spasms of the slime were so much more obvious on sensitive, naked flesh.

All around, a hilly sea of them shivered in the light, moved as one with him and through him.

A sting as they undulated their way into his urethra, pressed against the gland of his dick, the blood-pounding veins. The slime found any entrance it could, passage granted easily as he relaxed into its massage.

In his ass, working up the intestinal tract. Hector imagined he could feel little velcro tickles of hooks against his innards, along his tongue and throat.

He gagged, instinctively swallowed some down to sit fetid and heavy in his stomach. The slime was smothering him, eyes tearing as more found its way into his nostrils, ears.

Hector’s fingers clawed, hips jerked toward the release – like fucking a woman with a thousand tendrils and tiny claws. Not slime. Slime didn’t move like this. Not a woman either, pushing into him, penetrating deeper, stretching him out.

He was heavy, swollen and hot with them. It throbbed against his prostate, flashes of white pleasure in the hazy darkness settling over his gaze.

It was hard to breath, more spilling into him, they were going to split him, burst forth in viscera and blood, blessed release to the increasing pressure. Hector tensed, and the things tensed with him, clenched around his dick as he came, body spasming in a sea of mimicked movement. Something oozed out with his cum, milked by the slime-things, keeping him from coming down from the climax.

He blacked out.

Came to in a darkened room.

His first thought was the absence of the slime. Missing it. It was cold. A woman sat beside him, dozing off.

Hector reached toward her, confused, touched her to see if she was just imagination.

She started, then threw herself onto him. As he reoriented, the woman told him what had happened. Faulty tools. Hypothermia. Oxygen deprivation. Worms – those had been worms? – in a tangled death-mound. He’d fallen in, they sought escape. He was lucky they hadn’t killed him by sheer volume alone. It’d taken days to completely remove them from him, leaving him hollow.

Hector knew how many there were, he remembered their weight, the throb as they stretched him, searched for sanctuary inside of him, his body gladly complying. He couldn’t remember who this woman was, though, even when they were home, he was fucking her, saying her name and thinking of how she felt just like the worms around his dick.

Sometimes, he felt a tickle at his throat, an itch deep below his skin, an involuntary spasm of muscle that got him hard and aching when it was just him in the dark of night. Hector didn’t think the doctors had gotten all of them out, imagined they’d not as he jerked himself to completion.


End file.
